Rest assured
Pogranichik x endmin(female)
Lmao guess who’s back
(Inspired by official vid from Hypergryph)
—
The room is dim, lit only by the thin amber line of a desk lamp. Paper sleeps where it fell. The world outside has paused its teeth.
Pogranichnik notices the moment her breathing changes—when work finally loosens its grip and sleep takes her by surprise. Her head tilts, just slightly, chin dipping toward her collarbone. He doesn’t move right away. He waits. Always waits. As if rushing might fracture something fragile.
Then—
one step closer.
The coat comes off his shoulders without a sound. Heavy fabric, folded once in his hands, then laid over her with care. He adjusts it millimeter by millimeter, making sure it doesn’t slip, making sure the warmth stays where it should. His knuckles brush her sleeve by accident.
He freezes.
She doesn’t stir.
Only then does he let himself exhale.
A strand of hair has fallen into her face, dark against her cheek. It wasn’t there before. He hesitates—this is unnecessary, he tells himself. There are rules for battlefields. None for this.
Still… his fingers lift.
He doesn’t tuck it back right away. He lets it slide once, slowly, between gloved fingers, feeling its softness through fabric meant for steel and frost. The touch is barely there. More permission than contact.
His gaze lingers. Not sharp. Not assessing. Just… staying.
Someone opens the door. He furrows his brow.
“Keep quiet.”
The word lands flat and cold, a blade laid on stone.
“Someone is resting.”
The door closes again. The noise retreats. Order restored.
When he turns back, his expression changes—not dramatically, not visibly, but enough that the air softens around him. He crouches beside her chair, lowering himself so they’re level. His glove comes off. Bare fingers this time.
He brushes her cheek. Once. Light as snowfall. As if checking whether she’s real, or something the night invented to test his restraint.
“You’re exhausted,” he murmurs—to no one, or maybe to himself.
His thumb stills at the corner of her jaw, then withdraws. He doesn’t take more than that. He never does.
“Rest assured,” he says quietly, voice worn smooth by promise.
“We have a battlefield up ahead.”
He straightens. Puts the glove back on. Returns to stillness.
From this point on, nothing reaches her unless it goes through him first.
———
This is me:
